


Oil and Water

by blacksatinpointeshoes



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Gen, It Gets Worse, M/M, Partners in Crime, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-blaseball through Season 10, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacksatinpointeshoes/pseuds/blacksatinpointeshoes
Summary: Oil and water is a card effect that leaves red and black cards separated from one another. While it appears to involve some sleight of hand, it is also a gimmick trick that artificially removes the cards from one another by the use of outside forces, such as double-sided tape.An incomplete history of the Charleston Shoe Thieves, featuring a heist crew, a magic trick in three parts, voicemails, Canada, coffee, poor decisions, a disgruntled god, and, of course, the game of blaseball, in all its glory, its tragedy, and its love.
Relationships: Cornelius Games & Matteo Prestige, Cornelius Games & The Charleston Shoe Thieves, Cornelius Games/Richardson Games
Comments: 31
Kudos: 45
Collections: Charleston Shoe Thieves Fanfiction





	Oil and Water

**Author's Note:**

> On the evening of November 24, 2020, I said to myself, "I might write something about the Shoe Thieves and see what happens." I had the draft of this monstrosity finished in two days. Some part of me must have wanted to catch up to NaNoWriMo, or something.
> 
> Some notes: 
> 
> \- This does not strictly follow any canon (Twitter canon, Wiki canon, etc) and is entirely based on what I thought makes an interesting story. However, I did try to pay homage to communal lore elements that I enjoyed! 
> 
> \- The actual game events were taken from official Reblase records. Thank you so much to SIBR for making it possible for me to be accurate down to the inning about what happened to whom and when. 
> 
> \- These were not major enough elements to tag, but there are references to abortion and adoption in the first 500 words. This can be easily skipped by scrolling to the first line break. Additionally, there is a short reference to parental death in the section begins with "Cornelius calls home," and this can similarly be skipped by scrolling to the next line break. 
> 
> -The version of Charleston, Illinois that exists here is heavily fictionalized. However, Charleston, Illinois is a real place. (Thank you, you know who you are, for informing me about it.)
> 
> \- Cornelius, Workman, Vela, Esme, and Morrow are all explicitly portrayed here as Black. Matteo and Forrest are both shown here as Latine (in my mind, mestizo Puerto Rican and Cuban, respectively). There's no real reason to note this aside for the fact that I, as a Black author, made this decision and felt like sharing it with the world.
> 
> -Cornelius is deliberately portrayed as Autistic, which is a subject I have quite a few thoughts on, but this fic was not the space for that analysis for a variety of reasons. However, it's a concept I adore and one of those things I think the reader should know.
> 
> \- Look, if you have any peanuts, and you want to give them to Matteo, please give your peanuts to Matteo. I love them so much. Please. They're 35th in the hall. Give them peanuts. I miss them.
> 
> \- Richardson Games' maiden name is 'Mallory' for the sole reason that it means 'unfortunate,' 'unhappy,' or 'unlucky.' Esme's mother's surname is 'Wright' as a reference to Toni Morrison's _Sula,_ which I do understand doesn't need to be part of a blaseball fic, but the allusion to a broken friendship first borne from one leaving their hometown was too much for me to resist.
> 
> \- Cornelius and Dix’s first meeting includes a dialogue nod to tireddragonflies’ fic “Echoes and Feedback”! It’s an absolutely fantastic piece that I recommend reading and has become a part of my personal canon.
> 
> -Jack, thank you for putting up with the everything about this fic, and for your edits.
> 
> \- Thank you for sticking with me until this point, and I hope you enjoy the show.

Destiny Wright is going to be an actress. She is a senior at NYU Tisch, and she is very good. She’s talented in the way that makes everyone else in the room bend towards her, and, as if their appreciation makes her glow brighter, she exudes warmth in return. A dark halo of curls follows her everywhere and she bounces with them, bursting with light and potential.

Destiny hasn’t had her cycle for about four months before she becomes pregnant. It happens; she keeps a rigorous exercise schedule as a member of the varsity volleyball team and is doggedly persevering through the pressures of life. There is nothing to miss. The few symptoms she does have pass her by with a busy schedule and her continuation of the oral contraceptive she’s used all through college. It’s a “cryptic pregnancy,” she finds out six months later, at a visit to her OB-GYN. She’s barely showing; she’d just thought herself a little bloated. But no: there’s a  _ baby  _ in there, and Destiny can barely think of who the father could be.

She’s  _ busy;  _ she doesn’t have a boyfriend (or girlfriend, but less likely to knock her up), and to be frank she barely has sex in the first place. There was a fumbling hookup a few months ago out of boredom, but that timeline wouldn’t add up. There was that party with a good deal of well-to-do people in the entertainment industry and that self important white guy—

Six months ago. 

_ Shit.  _

Destiny thinks of anyone else she maybe would’ve slept with around that timespan and comes up empty. Shit,  _ fuck.  _ She leaves the appointment with one pamphlet on abortion, another on adoption and the biggest choice of her life thus far. 

The decision against abortion is fairly swift, if regretful. She was too far along. If only she’d caught the pregnancy earlier; if only she’d understood what was happening. Then she wouldn’t be caught choosing between her career and her child. Her  _ child.  _ That’s a weird concept. This baby— a girl, Destiny would later learn— had been growing inside her for six months, and she’d had no idea.

Adoption seems like the perfect compromise: once delivered, the child would go to a home that could properly support her, and later in life, Destiny might have the opportunity to reconnect. Someone who  _ wasn’t  _ a twenty-two year old with no life experience could raise Destiny’s daughter, and love her the way family was supposed to. She can live with that. The more time Destiny spends aware of the baby she was carrying, the less she likes the thought, but she could live with it.

Then she does her research. And oh, gods above, she can’t. Destiny reads the stories of foster system graduates and the traumas of adoption from best-case to worst-case scenarios, and she can’t. The system wasn’t kind to little Black girls. It will not love her baby the way she hoped. 

And so Destiny calls home. She starts crying when she tells her mother, who is quietly shocked but fiercely supportive, and she explains that if she’s going to have this child and keep her, she can’t do it alone. That much she knows. When her mother agrees, Destiny feels she’s doing the right thing for the first time throughout this whole process. 

A month later, Destiny Wright steps on a plane to Charleston, Illinois, preparing to take her life in a different direction. She’s going to be a mother. And an actress later, she hopes.

* * *

Cornelius Re’shawn Bellamy Jr. is three years old when Esme Wright is born. He’s an inquisitive kid with bright eyes, brown skin, a head full of curls, and a splash of freckles across his nose. He is gangly in the way that toddlers are, not yet tall, the Band-Aids on his knees indicative of how often he goes sprawling in his quest to conquer the world. Little Re’shawn does not know much about babies, except that they are smaller than he is, which is exciting. 

His mother Aniyah hefts him onto her hip from where he is lining up blocks, which is quite frankly uncalled for, but moments later the door opens and explains the disruption. “You remember Destiny,” Aniyah calls to her husband. “We went to church together when we first moved back here, remember? She was a junior in high school, I think— come on in, Destiny— her daughter’s six months, I thought, if they’re going to be growing up together, why not have them meet early? And then we can get together with Destiny, too, it’s so tough to be a young— Cornelius, are you even listening to me?”

Cornelius Re’shawn Bellamy, Sr. is nearly thirty and somewhat absentminded, a soft-spoken farmer who wears wire-rimmed glasses and enjoys Walt Whitman. “I’m listening, Aniyah,” he says, with a gentle smile about his lips. “And you look lovely.” 

She smacks him on the shoulder. “We have guests.”

Cornelius stands, and although he is the tallest person in the room, he does not dwarf the others. He nods to Destiny, offering her a similarly kind smile and a nod. She is holding Esme in her arms, which is much more important than a handshake. “It’s good to see you again, Destiny. Your daughter looks healthy.”

The compliment makes Destiny flush with pride as Re’shawn fusses in Aniyah’s arms. “Here, take your son,” she says, turning back to Destiny.

“Is he my son now?” 

Aniyah raises a brow. “Boy, he’s always your son. You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he says. “Have a good talk, ladies. Destiny, you are always welcome here.”

* * *

It goes like this: Re’shawn does not want to share his toys, so Esme steals them, and hides them in places he is too big to crawl into.

It goes like this: Esme’s preschool is just down the street from Re’shawn’s elementary, and so he will wait for her outside and they will play on the playground until Aniyah can bring them both home.

It goes like this: by the time she gets to first grade, Esme knows all the teachers in the next three years above her by name, as well as which ones she should avoid if she doesn’t want to get in trouble, and which one of the cafeteria ladies is the nicest, and how to get away with using the elevator without a key card, because Re’shawn is curious and will do anything she dares him to. 

It goes like this: half of their teachers and most of their classmates forget that “Esme Bellamy” or “Cornelius Re’shawn Wright” are not the proper arrangement of these names by the time they get to middle school. 

It goes like this: Re’shawn offers Esme a cigarette during lunch behind the high school. Esme slaps it out of his hand and claims she’s going to tell Aniyah. They both know she’s not going to. They’ve done this before. 

It goes like this: Esme likes girls and Re’shawn likes boys and Re’shawn likes girls and Esme does not like boys, and they’re able to look at each other and think,  _ oh, thank the gods, I’m not alone _ , and proceed to make fun of each other for their taste in the following years.

It goes like this: Re’shawn goes off to college in New Jersey. Princeton, like the asshole he is. He is eighteen, tall and confident, with a mischievous smile and a close-cropped fade. He looks just like his father. Esme tells him to fuck off for abandoning her and they fight about it, and even though he apologizes for going so far away, he doesn’t change his mind. 

* * *

“So,” Esme says. “This fucking blows.”

“Come on,” Re’shawn says, and already he is relaxed into that calm, infuriating posture that Esme did not see in him growing up. This is new. “It’s just college. You knew I was going.”

“I didn’t know you were going to fucking New Jersey,” Esme scowls. She’s more hurt than angry, and they both know it. 

“Hey. You can come visit,” Re’shawn tells her, and he’s not kidding but Esme laughs anyway.

“They don’t want me there.”

“Who’s ‘they’? And who cares?” he shrugs, one hand on his carry on and the other slipped casually into his pocket. “You’ve got to do college visits eventually. Why not start at the top?”

“You’re so full of it,” Esme says. 

“Mm-hm.” But he  _ is  _ at the top, and he knows it. He’s leaving small-town Illinois for a college that might get him somewhere, and Esme hungers for it. She wants a kitchen that’s not just used for dinner every day. She wants to cook for herself, not because her grandparents served people. Re’shawn can see it in her eyes, and knows he’s right. 

Aniyah and Cornelius are standing a ways away, and they hug their son for all it’s worth as a crackly voice comes over the intercom. They tell him they are proud. They tell him that he’s going to do  _ so well,  _ that they believe in him. Destiny is a bit teary-eyed but hides it, murmuring that she remembers when he was  _ this  _ tall, and it’s all very sweet. Whatever. Esme hates ‘sweet.’

“Hey,” Esme says as he turns to go.

“Yes?”

“Take care of yourself, asshole.”

Through the thick layer of nostalgia created by this hopeful goodbye, Re’shawn laughs, and there Esme can see the too-clever dickhead she’s known since before she could walk. “Yeah,” he says. “You too.” 

And then he’s gone. 

* * *

Matteo Prestige learned to pitch from their older brother. They would be one of the people later chosen for the Charleston Shoe Thieves’ rotation on account of their blaseball skill, and not solely their criminal talent, but that’s not relevant yet. They’d recently been recruited onto the Princeton blaseball team, which is where they’d meet Cornelius, but that’s also not relevant yet. 

Magic was Matteo’s first love. Knowing how to palm cards and execute a sleight of hand would later make them an excellent thief, but first it made them a stunning performer. They were quiet, barely showy, but their hands did the talking, and that was spectacular. Their quiet focus lent an air of mystery to the affair, so tense the audience could hear a pin drop, focused not on empty words but pure, beautiful magic. Some believed that Matteo’s ability was at least somewhat supernatural, and when asked, they would only smile. “A magician never reveals their tricks,” they would say, and wink.

Matteo Prestige is a middle child. They are five foot five. They refuse to grow a mustache. They’re humble, and easy to get along with, but their jokes are quietly cutting, made more so by their commitment to never raising their voice. They keep their hair long because someone once told them it looked better short. It is thick and black and glossy against golden-brown skin. They have never let another person hold the satisfaction of control over their actions. Even their temper is wry, the sharpest end of a short stick. 

They’re from New York City, which means that they know how to handle themself. Even if they come across as though they desperately need a leader, anyone who’s spent more than five minutes in their presence knows that this subservient impression is entirely false. Anyone who tries to be anything but an equal in a friendship with Matteo will soon find themself outsmarted, and that’s just the way they like it.

The first thing Cornelius notices about them is their hands. He has made the switch from Re’shawn to Cornelius at Princeton, and it fits him like a first suit: tailored, but still provoking wariness about how to move within it. He stands in the back of the room as Matteo catches the attention of everyone inside it with their private glances and quick fingers. 

Cornelius waits until the show is done and the crowd disperses. Matteo notices what he’s done within five minutes, going through their deck of cards, frowning, and then doing it again. They check the floor, then their bag, a bit panicked, and when they look up, Cornelius meets their gaze, challenging. Matteo returns it with a look so exasperated it already feels like they’ve known each other for years. 

“This your card?” he asks. It’s the ace of clubs. Cornelius snagged it out of the deck after catching where Matteo had replaced it, blending in with the crowd of admirers who had leaned in close to see their tricks. 

Matteo walks up to him and takes it back. “Obviously it’s my fucking card,” they say. They don’t like to be outsmarted. That’s  _ their  _ job. 

Cornelius shrugs. “Just checking.” 

So they become friends, clearly. What else were they supposed to do? 

* * *

When in doubt, Matteo knows a guy. Matteo always knows a guy, and so when Cornelius actually brings up a heist team in a way that doesn’t make them burst out laughing, Matteo thinks on it and says, “Yeah, I can do something for you.” Matteo, Cornelius has learned, is the quietest extrovert to ever exist.

This is how Cornelius meets and immediately becomes rivals with Workman Gloom. He doesn’t hate them, far from it: Workman meets Cornelius, the man whose heist team he has expressed interest in joining, and has the sheer audacity to try to steal his ID out of his back pocket as they take a seat. Cornelius is both affronted and delighted enough to merely watch Workman sit down, knowing that something’s been taken, wondering if he can make them crack. 

Workman Gloom has a dog and a robust sense of humor. They use the word “bro” in a way that somehow does not make them seem like a douche. They’re tall enough to look Cornelius in the eye and make Matteo feel short, and sport an easy mop of dreadlocks that spend most of their time falling into Workman’s eyes. Their skin is fresh-earth dark and their bright smile has already figured out your secrets. Cornelius quickly understands what Matteo meant when they told him to meet Workman before judging them. 

“So,” Workman says, the ID still hidden somewhere on their person. Cornelius’ eyes shine trying to find it. “Y’all really tryna do this?”

“Depends on whether or not you’re serious,” Cornelius returns, leaning back and flicking open a pack of cigarettes. Aniyah’s voice in the back of his head says something about how it’s a bad habit, and he waves it away as he lights up. “All just fun and games. Unless you can prove otherwise.”

Cornelius is a pickpocket, and a good one. He lays the plans, sure, but his skills lie in that easy charm as he robs a room blind. Matteo has quick fingers, yes, but he uses them for show: he distracts an audience, traps them in place as he performs, distracts, gives Cornelius time to do what he needs to. Immediately, Cornelius can see what a perfect grifter Workman would be. They look trustworthy, and haven’t broken a sweat even with Cornelius staring them down, well aware that he’s been stolen from.

Workman cocks a brow. “Haven’t I?”

“Mm,” Cornelius says, blowing smoke into the evening air. “I would like that back.” 

The ID comes untucked from an unseen internal pocket of Workman’s varsity jacket, and Workman is grinning that disarming smile that Cornelius knows better than to trust. “Mister Bellamy,” Workman says, with no respect, “you really aiming to put together a crime team with no white folk?” Matteo snickers. 

“Are we supposed to trust white people?” Cornelius counters, halfway joking. 

“Look, bro, I’m not disagreeing with you,” Workman says, holding up their hands, “I’m just saying, we get caught doing shit, that’s suspicious as hell.”

“Gloom, man,” Matteo says, and their amusement already carbonates their words, “are you calling us criminals? You stereotyping? What are you, fucking racist?” 

And the laughter that follows is genuine, from all of them. Workman’s personality is just the right shape to fill in the next puzzle piece needed for this slowly assembling crew, their easy conflict with Cornelius already sparking excitement into the next day. It’s a languid day in October, when the leaves begin to turn fire-red, and Cornelius Bellamy is making plans.

He’ll think about that beautiful moment later, after Workman goes. He’ll think about the offer he made, the discussions they had, the handshake they shared. Cornelius will think about the blaseball players with premonition, and how, if he had that gift, he would have thrown Workman out of the meeting as soon as they’d arrived. But Cornelius does not have premonition, and so he continues building the team. 

* * *

Workman Gloom, apparently, also knows a guy. The promised somewhat-less-suspicious white man of their still nameless heist crew is called Stu Trololol, and Workman explains through laughter on a midnight call, “Listen, bro, no, I didn’t pick him because he’s white, I picked— stop laughing at me— I picked him because I just watched this kid steal a load of clown shoes, just out of a truck, for no reason— no, I’m not kidding, would I call you at this time of night just to lie to you? Anyway, he stole some fucking clown shoes, and it was so petty, man, this kid’s got no fear. Nerves of steel, I’m telling you.” 

Cornelius, who goes to bed at a regular time like a regular person, has just managed to process what Workman has said by the time they finish speaking. “...You think he could drive?” he asks, voice raspy with sleep, and Workman laughs at him, because they’re an asshole.

“What time do you go to bed?” 

“Why does that matter?” 

“Because it’s fuckin’ one in the morning, bro, you’re a college student, and you sound like you’ve been asleep for a week.” Workman is still laughing at him.

Cornelius has a single semester left at Princeton, which is irritating solely for the reason that Workman had just graduated when they met and Matteo, being a year older than Cornelius, has left him newly alone in the Ivy League. Cornelius has responded to this by using increasingly convoluted security codes in their communications encrypted with references to niche Roman orations as an expression of displeasure. What he says is, “Did you wake me up just to make fun of me?”

“Nah, man, I called to tell you we might have a driver, weren’t you listening?”

“Talk slower,” Cornelius grumbles, flicking on the light. 

“Jeez, old man, I will,” Workman says, shifting their phone to their other ear. “Look, I talked to the kid, let him know I wasn’t a fucking cop, told him to meet us at seven at that same park where y’all sussed me out, and I figured we can wing it from there, you’re welcome.” 

Cornelius, if he were more than five minutes awake, would have found a polite way to say what he was thinking, but now he says, “Workman, if you’re wrong about this clown shoe stealing stranger, and he  _ doesn’t  _ have the nerve to be a driver and was instead some idiot hopped up on adrenaline and perhaps alcohol, I will wring your fucking neck.” 

“Fair enough,” Workman says, and hangs up. Cornelius goes back to sleep. 

* * *

As it turns out, Cornelius does not have to make good on his promise to wring Workman’s neck and instead adds to his mental file that they are incredibly good at distinguishing potential talent. Because Stu Trololol is annoying, puts on a fake Cockney accent, and is too anxious about potentially fumbling to pickpocket anything, but he sure as hell can drive. He can stay alert, irritating, and calm behind the wheel, plus he makes Cornelius no longer the youngest person on the team, which is a nice added bonus. 

Stu has a mop of grassy blond hair, a big nose, and a cheeky grin. He is one of the most perfectly mundane people Cornelius has ever seen. Stu will do anything on a dare and is so damn excited to be part of something bigger than petty larceny that Cornelius actually reminds him that their actions could have consequences, something he rarely likes to explain to members of his underground criminal organization. 

Stu is the one who brings shoes into it. There are a million things out there to be stolen, and Cornelius plans to steal at least most of them, beginning with valuables as funds to continue stealing other things. But stealing shoes is weirdly charming. Expensive shoes are so fundamentally useless, an expression of extravagant wealth bought more often as a trophy than an article of clothing. 

Some of the shoes they steal are from shipments. The nicest ones are resold for profit and an equal amount are scuffed up and donated to thrift stores. The rest are destroyed, reused, turned into something new. Leather doesn’t burn, so the gutted shoes are turned into jackets or patches or belts or just ribbons, and they don’t rob much but some wealthy assholes of their enjoyment, but that’s enough. 

* * *

After a heist in Maryland, they are dubbed the “East Coast Shoe Thieves” by a local newspaper. “That’s fucking boring,” Matteo says, punctuating their sentence with a loud slurp of coffee. 

“Corny should’ve given us a better name, then,” says Stu, shrugging, and the whole room goes quiet. 

_ “Corny?”  _ Workman asks, with barely concealed delight. Any lingering regrets Cornelius held about smoking at the breakfast table disappear as he sighs. 

“Yeah, you know,” Stu says. “Corny, Cornelius, it’s like— Cornelius is pretty long, it could be shorter.” 

“Uh-huh,” Workman says, sliding into the seat besides Stu. “Tell me more.” 

“Don’t even think about it,” Cornelius says flatly, as if he has any control over the way Workman chooses to tease him. 

“Maybe if you stopped smoking at the breakfast table, we’d be nicer to you,” Matteo says mildly, sitting down with the newspaper in hand. 

Cornelius blows smoke next to their face, in a way that could be considered unintentional if Matteo did not know Cornelius. “East Coast Shoe Thieves, hm?” 

“It’s pretty literal,” Matteo admits, looking down at the headline. “But it’s something.” 

“It is.” 

“You never did give us a name.” 

Cornelius shrugs. “Seemed tacky. No one good ever names themselves.”

“We waited two years for ‘Shoe Thieves’ because we steal shoes,” Matteo says, although they don’t disagree. 

“Maybe something better will come along.” Cornelius doesn’t sound at all bothered, and Matteo begins to suspect he likes the name. Of course he would. “Besides, we have patience in spades.” 

The corner of Cornelius' mouth tilts upwards and Matteo stares at him with the same exasperated fondness they do every time Cornelius does this. “Give me back my fucking ace,” they say, and Cornelius laughs, and does. 

* * *

Matteo gets into blaseball, and they keep playing for all these underleague teams, so Cornelius figures that if Matteo is going to be devoting all their time to this ridiculous activity, he might as well figure out how to steal from it. “The O’Connors from the Internet League are hosting some event,” Matteo finally says, the third time Cornelius has pressed them for information. “It’s tomorrow night. It’s rumored they’ve got some highly valuable jewelry in their back rooms, if we’re looking for any more funds.” 

There is no time when stealing from wealthy assholes to fund more criminal activity is a bad idea. Cornelius hums in thought. “There’s more.” 

“We’re going to need a forger,” Matteo says. “There are places we can’t access with only the skills we have.” 

“Do you know anyone?” 

“I have ideas.” 

“Good enough,” Cornelius says, because at this point, he trusts Matteo’s word like his own. Matteo would follow him anywhere if he asked, and in turn, if Matteo says someone is good people, Cornelius doesn’t question their judgement. Matteo’s ability to find trustworthy allies and co-conspirators alike is uncannily keen. The team they have so far, and the successes they’ve achieved over the course of the past year, has proven as much. 

“Do I hear Cornelius Bellamy willingly agreeing to go to a large social gathering?” Matteo asks, and Cornelius rolls his eyes. “Are you feeling alright? Has the boredom gone to your brain?” 

“Matteo,” Cornelius says, “I’m going to case a location. We’ve all done this before. Do you understand this or should I assume blaseball has you in its clutches and you’ve completely forgotten your real job?” 

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Matteo says, and hangs up. 

* * *

Cornelius arrives on the scene to steal jewels. Almost immediately, his attention is drawn to a man at the bar, and even though Cornelius doesn’t know it yet, from here on out he has been permanently changed. The pieces of his life are slotting into place one at a time, and time charges on, uncaring, irreversible. 

The man, he learns, is named Richardson Mallory, and he plays for the newly formed New York Millennials. He’s middling in height, shorter than Cornelius but taller than a good deal of people in the room, with neatly styled black hair and angular features. Not delicate— sharp and strong like a well told insult. Their eyes are a piercing shade of blue-gray, they’re dressed to the nines, a baby pink dress shirt beneath a crisp black blazer, and they are beautiful. The clincher is not in the looks, though, but instead the combination of humor and melancholy woven into the man’s expression, his posture. It stands out like an unsolvable cipher, and Cornelius desperately wants to understand it.

Cornelius wants  _ him.  _

“Evening,” Cornelius says, taking a seat at the bar. The man seems a bit surprised that a stranger is speaking to him, but takes a good look at Cornelius and decides to roll with it. 

“Hey,” he says, offering half a smile. There’s no recognition in the glance, prompting, “Are you a player or a benefactor?”

“Just a guest,” Cornelius replies. He has a cover story, but he doesn’t care. He wants to make the man figure it out. He wants them to be right. 

“Friend of the O’Connors?”

Cornelius smiles, just the ghost of it. “Something like that.” 

A shift. Good. “Why are you really here?”

“Darling,” Cornelius says, and it is the sweetest joke, because he’s not at all kidding, “I’m about to rob these fools blind.” 

The man laughs, and for the first time, Cornelius sees the quiet spark in his eyes roar into a flame of interest. If Cornelius thought they were beautiful before, he is proven further correct when rewarded with the clarity of excitement in those pretty blue eyes, like clouds clearing from the sky.

“Let me buy you a drink first, and you can tell me all about it,” he says, flagging down a bartender and letting Cornelius order. There is a casual ease in how he throws around money, like it doesn’t occur to him that this is something limited, precious. “Richardson Mallory. Dickson to acquaintances, Dix if I like you.”

“Cornelius Bellamy,” he returns. “Nice to meet you, Dix.”

“Who says I like you?”

“Educated guess.” Cornelius’ drink arrives, as if to prove a point. 

“So,” says Dix, the man Cornelius does not yet know he will marry, “why are you doing this?”

“Fun and games,” is the nearly immediate answer, delivered with the confidence of an inside joke. “Why else?” 

* * *

Morrow Doyle wears a Star of David under his shirt, is recovering from top surgery, and has never picked up a blaseball bat in his life. He keeps a few curls unruly and free to poke out from under his cap, and his warm brown skin glows like embers of a comforting fire. Morrow doesn’t tend to fool around with any of the women that would be happy to have them, but their stone butch mystique only covers a love of poetry and a dorky grin with two crooked teeth.

Morrow can falsify anything, from handwriting to legal documents, given enough references and enough time. They furrow their brow and stick out their tongue and wave away anyone who tries to bring them some form of sustenance — “It’s a distraction,” he explains, “I’ll eat when I’m ready.” 

Between them and Cornelius, the office space where the Shoe Thieves do most of their planning has a tendency to go absolutely silent as they work, the only sound being that of breathing and the clack of computer keys. Matteo is pretty sure that if left alone, the two of them would never speak and still exist completely in sync. Needless to say, Morrow fits in perfectly. 

Over lunch, planning for the O’Connor job, Stu waves Morrow down with a fork and calls, “What’s up, Doc?”

Everyone at the table, who is used to this, waits for the explanation with a combination of amusement and dread. “Oh, come on,” Stu protests, “that was good! Morrow Doyle, MD, medical doctor? Doc? Come on, you can’t say that wasn’t good.” 

“I like it,” Morrow says, taking a seat next to Cornelius. “It’s funny.”

_ “Thank  _ you!” Stu says, a bit too emphatically, but he gets victories so rarely it’s imperative that he takes what he can. 

* * *

The O’Connor job goes off without a hitch, thanks to Morrow. It puts the five of them in fantastic spirits, adrenaline coursing through their veins and stolen goods secure in the getaway car’s trunk. Morrow is  _ good,  _ and he opens locked doors like nobody’s business. It’s beautiful. Cornelius, at twenty three, is walking on air. 

He has continued seeing Dix, but he hasn’t told anyone about his personal puzzle. They’re a riddle with a constantly shifting answer and the more time Cornelius spends with them, the more fascinating he finds them. Sometimes they steal things together; sometimes Dix will take Cornelius out to a restaurant so upscale it takes half his effort not to stare at the prices on the menu. The pair of them are a perfect dissonance waiting to resolve into harmony. 

The moments of in-sync beauty are few and far between, but there are some days where they understand each other without words, where they are speaking a language of their own creation, where the world falls away and only the other exists. This is a composition and they have spun the melody out of flirtations, underscored by the bass notes of what Cornelius begins to think might be love. 

Cornelius is happier. Matteo notices. “Have you found a new job?” they ask. The team has settled back into the easy rhythm of smaller heists while Cornelius works himself silly on Dix, who challenges him as effectively as any state of the art security system.

“Something like that,” Cornelius says. “Soon, I think.” 

Matteo doesn’t press him, because that’s not who Matteo is. And because they have never seen Cornelius in love, they can’t call him out or make fun of him about it, so the opportunity goes uncaptured, and the days pass. Matteo continues to play blaseball. Cornelius quickly realizes how great an opportunity the game provides, more than the O’Connors, to create a sky-high heist of whatever the hell he wants to steal. Shoes, maybe. Maybe not. The world is at his fingertips.

* * *

“We need muscle,” Doc says, and Cornelius glances over at them, more surprised about being spoken to while they’re both working than the statement itself.

“It’s been on our radar for a few years. Matteo’s looking,” Cornelius replies. “Although by your statement I presume you have ideas.”

Doc nods. “Friend of mine. Knew her in college. Bit eldritch. We used to burn things together. Trustworthy.” A beat. “Tall. Really tall.”

“An impressive resume. What’s her name?”

“Hunter,” Doc says. “Ren Hunter. You’ll like her.” 

* * *

It is at about this time that the name “Esme Ramsey” enters Cornelius’ radar. He doesn’t, at first, make any connection to the kid he knew in small town Illinois, and why should he? Esme Ramsey is an up and coming player for the Moab Sunbeams, and Esme Wright wanted to be a pastry chef. Esme isn’t an overly common name, but probability shows that these are two unrelated people. 

Seeing the name “Esme” makes him think about home, though, in a way he hasn’t for a long time. He calls his parents occasionally, sure, tells them he has a real job and is applying his degree, but he’s not nostalgic for those days. Esme, though, has fallen completely out of touch. She never came to visit, and he never did learn where she ended up for college. 

He’s thinking about Esme when he meets Ren, and the wires of ‘seeing what Esme is up to’ and ‘adding people to the heist team’ cross. It’s an idea that he will return to later, and one that is instantly expelled from his mind when he looks up into Ren’s glowing eye, understanding exactly what every word of Doc’s short description meant. 

Ren Hunter is  _ tall,  _ but she’s not scary, or at least not now. She might be a cyclops, and might not be. She is both gorgeous and formless, friendly and off-putting. Ren is quiet, but not soft spoken. Her laugh sounds like rocks grinding themselves together. She moves silently but is as subtle as a boulder. She is the definition of a gentle giant, a contradiction, mysterious and transparent, her single visible glowing eye calm and steady.

Doc grins when he looks up at her, and waves, and right away the pair of them fall back into an old rhythm. Matteo recognizes her from an underleague team, and they start talking blaseball once the formalities are through as Doc and Cornelius share a look. Blaseball seems to be everywhere nowadays. Cornelius once again thinks about using it, with its growing popularity and perfect cover story, to steal something. Anything. Everything. 

* * *

“Marry me,” Cornelius says. They’re sitting in Dix’s car. What they have stolen and who they have stolen it from is irrelevant, because they’ve bought themselves time and adrenaline and excitement and there is a town hall nearby and Dix says—

“Now?”

“Now.” 

“Are you serious?”

“Completely.” 

“Okay, yeah,” Dix says, and leans over to the passenger seat to kiss him, and they both start laughing because this whole thing is ridiculous. They’re twenty four and have been sneaking around behind both of their team’s backs for two years about this relationship, because it’s better when it’s just theirs. Now they’re going to get married on a whim because Cornelius, for once, couldn’t resist blurting out an impulse and Dix looks so handsome in the setting evening light and the whole day is giddy joy.

“Whose name do you want?” Cornelius asks, and Dix pulls back, makes a face.

“Not mine.”

“Mm.”

A beat, thinking. The excitement hasn’t worn off yet. “Games,” Dix says, one thumb still brushing over Cornelius’ cheek.

“Games?”

“Games, fun and,” they explain, their smile lopsided, and Cornelius adores them for everything they are. “Why not?” 

* * *

Ren Hunter’s friends are weird. Doc described her as a “bit eldritch,” which wasn’t wrong, but the company she keeps is significantly more eldritch. Blankenship Fischer, who is almost sixteen feet tall and can hardly fit inside any building, is oddly good at running tech support, and Workman can hold a one-sided conversation against their howling for hours at a time. Cornelius enlists them for their talents in working multiple screens at the same time, and security cameras are at the Shoe Thieves’ mercy from the moment Fischer properly joins up. 

Fischer, who is almost entirely made of teeth, brings with them two skeletons: Antonio Wallace, who is a bit self-conscious about being plastic, and the perfectly eerie Sebastian Townsend. 

“What’s this?” Cornelius asks as he steps into the office— well, they call it an office, it’s a few finished rooms in an abandoned construction site— to see Fischer tapping away at their computers, both of the skeletons doing something with wires that Cornelius for the life of him can’t figure out.

_ “Who,  _ not what, _ ”  _ Antonio says primly, which is not a voice Cornelius ever expected from a skeleton, but okay. After nearly having a heart attack when Fischer showed up, Cornelius is slightly more prepared for the weirdness of his friends and their friends. “My name is Antonio Wallace.” 

Okay, sure. Cornelius holds out a hand. “Cornelius Games. This is my operation, and I would love for you to inform me why you’re here.”

“Sebastian and I are engineering,” Antonio says, gesturing between himself and the other skeleton— Sebastian, apparently. “Fischer has brought us here as assistants.” 

Fischer nods, and Cornelius pinches his temple. “We’ll talk about this later,” he says, removing his jacket and finding Matteo in the next room.

“Games?” Matteo asks, and it has been approximately two months since that joy-fused afternoon, so Cornelius shrugs. It’s about time he told the inner circle of the team.

“Call Workman,” he says thoughtfully, lighting a cigarette. “Stu and Doc, too, if they’re nearby.” 

Matteo hollers for them, then waits. “What’s this about, Cornelius?” He holds up a finger and takes a drag.

“Hearts, Matteo, what else?”

“Give me back the card,” Matteo says flatly, and Cornelius obligingly returns the ace of hearts, eyes sparkling. “I’m serious. Something’s been going on with you, and I haven’t bothered you about it.”

Workman appears in the doorway. “S’up.”

“Are Stu and Doc on their way?” Cornelius asks, ignoring Matteo’s previous statement. 

“Should be, I saw them in the hall,” Workman says, straddling a chair backwards and adjusting a cap they’ve stolen from Doc. “Any second.” 

There’s a different air here than when Cornelius is about to announce a job. This has more mystery, less anticipation. Stu leans on the fridge. 

“I’m married,” Cornelius says, and the whole place goes silent. Then—

_ “What?”  _ Matteo is rarely surprised by Cornelius anymore, but apparently he still has something up his sleeve that can shock them. “To  _ who?” _

“To whom,” Cornelius corrects.

“Motherfucker, you know what I  _ mean!”  _ Matteo says, running a hand through their hair. “When the fuck did this happen?”

“Congrats, man,” Doc says, holding out his hand for Cornelius to high five, or shake, or something. Cornelius looks at Matteo as if to say,  _ This is how it’s done.  _

“My husband’s name is Richardson Games. He plays for the New York Millennials,” Cornelius says, and Workman’s eyes widen with recognition. 

“What, Mallory? Y’all went out and chose a whole new name? Fucking nerds,” they say, shaking their head fondly. “Wouldn’t expect nothin’ else.” 

“I’ll introduce you to them if you all can  _ behave  _ yourselves,” Cornelius says, boxing Workman on the back of the head from where they are conveniently sitting within smacking distance. 

Workman laughs. “Yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll play nice,” they say, grinning, raising their hands over their head to prevent getting wacked again. “I’m always nice! I’m always, always nice.” 

* * *

Forrest Perez, later Forrest Bookbaby, is found in the typical old way: Matteo knows a guy. He’s already a blaseball player, which Cornelius appreciates, as he’s begun to float the cover-team idea to Matteo despite the fact that the majority of their heist team has no idea how to play. Forrest becomes their bookkeeper, and it is Workman, not Stu, who immediately starts calling him ‘Bookbaby.’ The name sticks, and with it the friendship that binds the Thieves together. 

Forest Bookbaby is a nerdy, nervous-looking guy with a mop of brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses. He looks half as smart as he is and an eighth as dangerous. After Stu, Bookbaby is their best getaway driver, and despite being a generally anxious guy, has the makings of a strong pickpocket. Cornelius appreciates his quiet efforts, and their results.

He and Stu get along like a house on fire. They do stakeouts together, and the jokes that come out of them are incomprehensible, but they make both of the boys giggle, so it’s good enough. 

It is around this time that they all begin to learn blaseball— the majority of them batting, of course, with Matteo teaching Cornelius to pitch and quickly realizing that he’s not too bad at all. Forrest pitches too, even though he would be a stronger batter, but Cornelius doesn’t care enough about adequately employing the team’s athletic skills as long as their criminal qualities are given time to shine behind the scenes. 

Dix doesn’t love the idea, but that’s not Cornelius’ problem. Besides, when they play against each other, they’ll have more time to see one another anyways. Dix is always playing, and the offseason is short. When Cornelius puts it like that, they seem a bit warmer to the thought, but their expression is cloudy and Cornelius does not make the storm leave. 

* * *

The roster is four short: two batters, two pitchers. “We can just put down my dog,” Workman says, glancing over Cornelius’ shoulder at the list. “Who cares? They won’t know Beasley can’t pitch. It’s a cover anyway, right?” 

“It is,” Cornelius says, tapping a pencil. 

“Plus, it’s funny.” 

Cornelius considers it. “It is funny,” he agrees, and writes down  _ Beasley Gloom  _ in their second-to-last pitcher slot. “One less player for Matteo to find.” 

* * *

Esme Ramsey is Esme Wright. Cornelius learns this out of curiosity, after learning that Ramsey has become a free agent and planning to leave the Sunbeams. She’s older, obviously, and glaring at the camera in the photo that accompanies the article, but that’s Esme, alright. Cornelius would know the scrunch of her nose anywhere. 

Her hair is pulled back into protective braids, bunched into a ponytail atop her head. She looks strong, confident, capable. There is, as always, a fire in her dark eyes, and a set to her shoulders that declares her able to take on not just whatever is in front of her, but the entire world. Esme has grown up, and has been running in a similar circle to Cornelius for at least the past two years. He had no idea. He should have. 

He calls her. 

“Are you fucking serious?” is how Esme picks up the phone. “You haven’t talked to me since I was fifteen, are you serious?” 

“Good afternoon,” Cornelius says instead of rising to the bait. He realizes how lucky he is that Esme never changed her number. “You never visited.” 

“What do you want, Re’shawn?” she asks, and Cornelius pauses. Esme is a relic with a significance he hadn’t yet placed. She is a history he hasn’t escaped. 

“Cornelius,” he says, softly.

“What?”

“My name. I go by Cornelius, now.” 

“Huh,” Esme says, and there is a strange note of emotion in her voice that is aggressively squandered by irritation. “Okay, whatever, what do you want?”

“I’m starting a blaseball team,” Cornelius says. “It’s a cover for a heist crew, but clearly we’ll have to do both things. I saw that you’re a free agent now, and am offering a spot on our roster.”

“What’s the team?” Esme asks, and it is her voice that seals the deal. It is her connection to the past that reminds Cornelius exactly of the double entendre he can make with his once-hometown, a joke meant for them alone, allowing the rest of the league and the world to believe the likeliest surface-level explanation. The whole team is a front. Why should its name be any different?

“The Charleston Shoe Thieves,” Cornelius says, and Esme laughs. 

“Of course you would,” she says, and by that alone, Cornelius knows she has already agreed.

* * *

When they see each other next, Esme has a kid on her hip and her braids spilled all over her shoulder. Cornelius raises a brow as if to say,  _ Taking after your mother?  _ and Esme scowls at him. “This is Vela,” she says, bouncing the toddler. “Say hi to R— to Cornelius, Vela.”

“Hi, Cornelius,” Vela repeats dutifully. Her hair is pulled up into two enthusiastic Afro puffs that are each bigger than her head. She reminds Cornelius a bit of Esme as a kid, a smattering of freckles thrown like sprinkles across her warm brown skin.

“Hi, Vela,” Cornelius says, and waves. “She yours?”

Vela squirms, and Esme sets her down. “Not really,” she says. “Alstott’s kid, from the Moist Talkers. They’re cool, but Vela loves me and ever since I split from the Beams I’ve been teaching her to play. So. Kid’s with me.”

“Mm,” Cornelius says, looking down to where she’s hugging Esme’s leg. “Any good?” 

“So good,” Esme says, grinning. “Why, you want her on?” Cornelius shrugs, and Esme rolls her eyes. “You really don’t know when to stop.”

“We just need a name on a roster.” 

Esme whistles. “You’re serious about this.” 

“I will not make Vela commit any crimes that she doesn’t wish to commit,” Cornelius says, mock-solemnly. 

“I want to play!” Vela says, tugging on Esme’s shirt. “Can I?” 

“You’re two,” Esme says.

“And I want to play!” 

Esme looks at Cornelius as if to say,  _ Look what you’ve done.  _ Cornelius, the picture of innocence, shakes his head. “She wants to play.” 

“You’re the worst,” Esme says, and doesn’t mean it. 

* * *

“Babe,” Dix says, shaking Cornelius’ shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Phone call.” 

“What— now? Who?” 

Dix squints at the caller ID. “Matteo.”

Cornelius swears under his breath. “This’ll just be a minute.” Wordlessly, Dix hands him the phone, and he steps into the hallway, shutting the door of their bedroom behind them. “Always good to hear from you, Ma—”

“Snyder Briggs. Arsonist. Pitcher,” Matteo says, and the excitement in their voice is palpable. “That’s fourteen. We’ve got fourteen. We’re in.” 

Silence, across the line. “Holy shit,” Cornelius breathes, because it’s late, and his ironclad filter isn’t clamped on, and Matteo is whooping, laughing on the other line.

“We did it,” they say, and Cornelius can hear the way their grin splits their face into two, “We fucking did it!” They’re yelling into the night, gleeful and free, and a weight lifts off Cornelius’ chest. This project was ridiculous and ambitious and with the crew assembled, the Charleston Shoe Thieves are halfway there. 

* * *

Cornelius calls home. The story he tells his parents about how he became interested in blaseball isn’t entirely true, but it’s not entirely false, either. He tells them about Matteo, and their love of pitching, and the underleagues. He tells them that he slowly became friends with enough people and developed enough skill that he thought he had a shot at going pro. He tells them about how he has reconnected with Esme. Aniyah and Cornelius Sr. are so proud of him. 

It is the last time he’ll speak to them. A week and a half later they will be killed in a car accident, and for the first time, Cornelius’ world will go cold. Dix will find him in the kitchen with the phone still against his ear and know that something is wrong, and they will go to the funeral, and nothing will be the same again.

* * *

When blaseball begins, so do a myriad of problems. The Forbidden Book is still closed, but even if it weren’t, the accursed thing would still hold no responsibility for the Games’ marital issues. 

They always argued, but their fights grow more bitter and more pointless as the season begins. Dix moves to New York; Cornelius takes it personally. Cornelius turns up late to their only date of the month because of plans with Matteo and Dix spits fury in his direction, snapping, “As if you don’t see them every  _ fucking  _ day, Cornelius. Nice to know where your priorities lie.”

And it hurts because hadn’t Dix abandoned him first, going off to New York to live with the Millennials when Cornelius was  _ right there? _ But to admit hurt is to admit defeat, and so Cornelius says, “I’m not the one who left.”

“Whatever,” Dix says, shoving their hands in their pockets. “Just fucking stand me up entirely next time, it’ll be better than whatever this shit is.”

“If you truly don’t want to see me, say it to my face,” Cornelius says. “You’re making assumptions about my priorities—”

“Assumptions?” Dix laughs with no joy. “It’s not an assumption that you were fucking forty five minutes late. To spend time with someone you see constantly. Some priorities.”

_ “You’re  _ the one who moved,” Cornelius says again.  _ “You’re  _ the one who chose to make this arrangement once a month.  _ You’re  _ the one who told me not to bother coming. Some priorities, love.” 

“You know that’s not what— you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Is it so hard to believe it was an accident? That I lost track of time?”

“One conversation, Cornelius. Just one. That’s not a fight.” Dix exhales, shaking his head. “Too much to ask for, apparently.”

“Don’t.” Cornelius’ voice is low, dangerous. “Don’t blame this all on me. That’s not fair and you know it.”

“I was here,” Dix says, spreading their hands.  _ “I  _ was here.”

“No, you weren’t,” Cornelius responds, and though this is the first time anyone hears that sharp bitterness infect his tone, it will be far from the last.

* * *

The Charleston Shoe Thieves have conglomerated in the lobby of Choux Stadium, home to their new office space, watching the results of the ILB Season 1 election. This is new, the way blaseball is actively spectated upon, and the Decrees and Blessings introduced have caused a buzz among players and fans alike. 

Matteo is drinking coffee. Workman and Stu are both being annoying, but in different ways. Doc is sitting on a windowsill with his feet atop the couch. Cornelius is sitting on the couch with one of Doc’s feet next to his ear. Esme is on the floor, her legs draped over Ren’s, and Ren is on a rocking chair off to one side, and so on and so forth. For the first time off the field, all of them are collected, waiting with bated breath for the results of the election. After this day, they will only have one more of these moments. 

But none of them know this yet.

The Forbidden Book opens, and the room goes quiet. It sounds big. It sounds  _ eventful.  _ Important. Dangerous. All things that the Shoe Thieves, by and large, enjoy. 

“The fuck does that mean?” Doc asks, and Ren laughs her gravelly laugh.

“I have no idea.”

“Thanks, Ren.”

“Any time, Morrow.” 

Esme rolls her eyes. “I mean, the thing’s called the Forbidden Book. Obviously there are going to be consequences.” 

“Perhaps,” says Ren. “We’ll see.” 

Immediately after her words are the emergency alerts: first for the death of Garages star pitcher Jaylen Hotdogfingers, who had  _ annihilated  _ the Thieves during their only game against her, and then that the Moab Desert had fallen into the Hellmouth. Esme sits up ramrod straight at that, staring at the television in disbelief. “Are they dead too? Are they— the Beams, are they gone?” 

It’s a question no one can answer as the screen goes black, replaced with white words ticking across the dark background: WELCOME TO THE DISCIPLINE ERA. THE DISCIPLINE ERA IS FOREVER.

ATONE.

ATONE. 

ATONE.

For the first time, Cornelius wonders whether bringing this team together was a mistake.

* * *

The feeling fades during the first half of the season. The Shoe Thieves don’t see incineration affect them, nor do any of the umpires go rogue during their games. They grow used to the red eyes of the umpires and the gusts of wind during the solar eclipses. They run their heists and play the game. None of them are very close to those who are lost, and though it’s upsetting, it’s not their  _ crew.  _ Their team is okay. That’s what matters. 

On Day 40, one of the Millennials is incinerated, and Cornelius is watching Snyder pitch a losing game when it happens. The headline doesn’t give the name, but Cornelius assumes the worst, and he’s calling Dix’s cell before he can stop himself. Voicemail. He feels sick.

“If you’re alive, call me back,” is what he’s able to say. “If—”  _ If you’re dead, I’m sorry, I love you, I shouldn’t have said everything I did, it wasn’t worth it.  _ No. That makes the death real, and it’s not real until Cornelius sees a body. “If you’re alive, I’m sorry for your loss.”

The day is agonizing. Cornelius knows he could just check the body of the article and get it over with, but the idea of seeing his husband’s last moments reported in cold, cruel typeface disgusts him. No, he’d rather wait, rather call Dominic tomorrow, and even though the Millennials’ captain regards him with a cool superiority that Cornelius knows for  _ certain  _ is borne of Dix painting him poorly, a conversation would be preferable to seeing the confirmation in the body of an article. 

The next morning, Cornelius wakes up to a voicemail: “I’m fine. Didn’t mean to worry you.” 

Cornelius doesn’t call back. Clearly Dix wouldn’t want him to. The gulf between them grows, but at least they’re alive. 

* * *

The Thieves almost snag a championship title. Matteo pitches a shutout. They’re still a magician at heart, a showman, and the crowd still goes quiet when they wind up, like they’re waiting for the outcome of a magic trick. “Hey, Twofer,” Matteo calls, two outs and two strikes down in the top of the ninth. “What comes after the Turn?”

“The Prestige!” she hollers back from the dugout, and Matteo pitches one last, perfect strike. The stands roar with pride, screaming their name as the Thieves swarm them on the mound.  _ Mat-te-o. Mat-te-o. Mat-te-o.  _

The chant fades into the background, a cry of victory and pride and a job well done. The crowd is on their feet for  _ Matteo,  _ and even the solar eclipse’s wind seems to lessen as the umpires retreat and joy floods the stadium. The pledge, the turn, the prestige: a perfect trick. 

“Yeah,” Matteo says as their team surrounds them, a look of pure bliss on their face. “That’s what I thought.” 

* * *

In the midst of everything, the Thieves have by and large missed the peanut fraud. Esme claims that she knew about it, but no one had so much as heard her breathe a word about it, so they’re all pretty sure she’s lying. They learn about peanut weather when Matteo walks out of Choux Stadium’s kitchen, scratching at their neck and asking, “Hey, did someone bring peanut butter in here? Y’all know I’m allergic, right?”

Esme shakes her head. “Also allergic, not me.” 

Workman, who is notably not allergic to peanuts, glances to the window. “Before we start pointing fingers, imma ask y’all to look at the sky,” they say. “Check this.” 

Matteo sighs and makes a mental note to have another cup of coffee. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Sorry, man,” Workman says, shrugging sympathetically. “I can just have Beas pitch for you whenever the weather is peanuts, nobody’s gonna notice.” 

“What the fuck,” Esme says flatly. “Of course they’re going to notice a  _ dog.” _

“Haven’t so far,” Workman replies cheerfully. “Look, bro, you need anything, I can throw a ball, put on a black wig, pull my weight, yknow—” 

Matteo claps them on the shoulder and grins. “Preciate it, Gloom. But I’ll be fine.” 

“If you say so!” 

* * *

Day 14 is the first time Cornelius sees incineration. The Millennials have four strikes, but Cornelius nonetheless almost manages an immaculate inning, ruined only by his husband’s fourth-strike ground out. The game is going well for the Thieves, and Dix will not look Cornelius in the eye when he’s up to bat, which is— fine. It’s fine, everything’s fine. 

It’s the top of the seventh, and Cornelius has just settled himself on the bench when it happens. Dominic is close to the dugout when the umpire trains their red eyes on him, which means Chorby is close to the dugout when they take the fall instead. There is a bang of lightning and flame and smoke and Cornelius’ head jerks upwards, trying to find its source.

This, he understands, as the smell of burning flesh fills the air, is incineration, in its entire, instantaneous horror.

When he can think again he realizes that the figure that went down was in a blue and pink uniform. It could’ve been any of them; it could’ve been— Immediately he turns to make sure that Dix hasn’t taken the hit, scanning the area, and feels a quiet note of relief when he realizes that they’re across the field, black hair shining in the sun.

And they’re looking at him. The same way that Cornelius has checked to ensure that, of all the Millennials,  _ his _ was alright, Dix has done the same. The impact was close enough to the dugout that any of the Shoe Thieves reasonably could’ve been in the line of fire. 

Their gazes meet, and it’s not an apology. Not even close. But a rope has been thrown across the chasm, and even if it doesn’t reach, the hand on the other side has been extended to catch it.

* * *

On Day 40, Sebastian Townsend goes. He is replaced by Atlas Jonbois, fresh faced and inexperienced and dead before anyone can find the time to welcome them. Cornelius runs cold in a way that makes the rest of the team avoid him for the rest of the week. 

He walks out onto the field. He buries the guilt with the bodies. He pitches.

* * *

Cornelius still goes to games in the middle of Season 3, which means he’s there when Matteo chokes on a peanut in the hazy air and begins to convulse. The Shoe Thieves have nice box seats in their own stadium, and Cornelius likes to kick up his feet and smoke while watching the team he’s created give the game their best shot. At first it was a joke. Then they had a real chance at winning. Now it’s a habit, and not one of his worst.

When Matteo goes down in the middle of the ninth inning, play grinds to an uneasy stop: there are still three balls and two strikes on the board, but the pitcher is in no position to pitch. Unlike the frigid grief of before, Cornelius is furious, and he can do something with fury. He’s on his feet before he can think about where he’s going, making the jump over the barrier between the seats and the field with surprising ease considering he’s wearing a suit and heading straight towards the pitcher’s mound.

Matteo is wheezing when he finds them. “Cornelius—” 

“You’re fine,” Cornelius says, hurriedly, unable to keep the panic out of his voice. “You’re going to be fine. You need to get off the field and find medical attention and everything will be fine.” 

He slings one of Matteo’s arms over his own shoulder and half-carries them to the dugout. “You’re  _ fine.”  _

“I can’t—”

“Matteo, listen to me,” Cornelius says, as a medic rushes over. “You’re getting through this. You’re going to be alright. That’s not optional.”

“Never been,” they choke out, grasping at Cornelius’ forearm, “very good at following directions.” 

“Make an effort,” Cornelius snaps, and Matteo would have laughed if they were capable.

“Asshole.” 

* * *

The officials force Matteo to keep pitching. They can barely stand, and Cornelius is standing there, fine and healthy, and Matteo is pushed back out on the mound, shaking. They give up a triple immediately, and that run forces the game into the tenth inning. The team rallies, pulls it together for Matteo, who, they will soon realize, will never pitch the same again.

_ Give me back my ace,  _ Cornelius thinks, bitterly, as the game finishes. 

* * *

Day 57. Matteo’s gone.

* * *

“Hey, man,” Workman says one morning. Cornelius is sitting alone at the table, sketching out plans for a routine job.

“Yes?”

Workman looks awkward, but sincere. “You good? I know everyone’s been a bit, uh— a bit torn up about Matteo, but bro, listen, if I’d lost a friend that close—”

“I’m quite alright, Gloom,” Cornelius says, and his smile doesn’t even try to reach his eyes. 

“Sure, but like—”

“I didn’t ask you to press me.”

Workman looks at him. They’ve spent years travelling together, working together, having one another’s backs, and right now, Cornelius is stonewalling them and succeeding. His expression is blank, chilly. He’s not easy to read on a good day, but never before has Cornelius actively tried to stop one of his own team members from parsing how he feels. “Look, Cornelius,” Workman says, putting a hand on the back of his chair, “I won’t press you. Swear it. But you need anything at all, you come to us, alright? Any of us. I won’t even laugh.”

“How kind of you,” Cornelius says, and his voice is even devoid of the exasperated humor Workman is so used to. 

“I mean it.” 

“I’m sure.”

* * *

For the first time since his parents’ deaths, Cornelius sits down, alone, and has a drink. He allows himself a single night of grief, of self pity. He indulges in the guilt of bringing them all together and drowns it in bourbon, sleeps late, and does not cry. 

Dix leaves a voicemail: “Heard about Matteo. I know they were important to you.” A hesitation, then: “I’m really sorry.” 

Everyone is so  _ sorry.  _

* * *

Cornelius is an asshole about the penguin. The penguin can’t pitch for shit and more importantly isn’t Matteo, so Cornelius figures he’s well within his rights to harbor some bitterness for Gunther fucking O’Brian. The bird barely knows right from left and is single handedly tanking the Shoe Thieves’ place in the rankings and can’t plan for a heist and  _ isn’t Matteo _ , and it is easier to grumble than to grieve. 

As at least somewhat expected, not openly adoring the Thieves’ new pitcher begins to garner Cornelius something of a reputation. He’s branded callous, uncaring. “Fucking really?” Esme demands, barging into his office holding a tabloid. “Really, Re’shawn? ‘Although I am pleased to hear he is charming the league, Gunther O’Brian certainly is no help to anyone but our opponents’—  _ really?”  _

Cornelius shrugs. “It’s true.” 

“You’re a thief!” Esme says.  _ “We’re  _ Thieves— we lie, we cheat, we steal, who cares, but we don’t fucking talk bad about one of our own—”

“And O’Brian is not one of our own,” Cornelius interjects, as Esme fumes. “Simple.” 

“Get over yourself,” she snaps. “You’re not the only one who lost Matteo.” 

She slams the door before Cornelius can respond. That’s fine. Cornelius didn’t have anything to say anyway. 

* * *

Fischer goes next. Esme carries a crying Vela back to the lobby of the stadium, calms her down, brings her some milk, tries to cheer her up with stories and television. 

“I don’t think I like this anymore,” Vela says. She is clutching the tooth that fell at her feet when Fischer burned, and has been ever since the game ended. 

“Oh, hey,” Esme says, a pang in her chest, “hey, hey, hey, no, we’re still going to have fun, Vela. And everyone’s working on a way to make things safe so we can all go back to having fun, and it’ll be alright.” 

Esme is reminding herself of her mother, the way Destiny would try to reassure her that Esme really hadn’t ruined her dreams of being an actress, that it was okay, that motherhood might be a different path but it was  _ just as good.  _ Even then Esme knew that no one would plan to become a single mother at twenty two, not with such a bright career ahead of her. Destiny had told Esme that great lie, “It’s okay,” so many times that she knew her mother was trying to believe it, too. 

Kennedy Alstott has been dead for most of the season and Esme doesn’t know how to explain to Vela that it was the same thing that happened to Matteo, to Sebastian, to Fischer. She doesn’t want to. 

And here Esme is, comforting a crying child, murmuring the great lie, “It’s okay, Vela. We’re going to be okay,” and understanding what her own mother meant. 

They have to be okay. They have no other choice. 

* * *

Season 4, at first, has mercy on the motley crew of Thieves. Three deaths  _ have _ to be repayment enough for Cornelius’ pride. 

He stops going to games during which he’s not pitching. He spends more time in the office. His laughter comes in smaller and smaller increments until Workman is caught in the feedback, and then Doc, and then he doesn’t laugh at all. 

First they kill his team, and then they’re scattered to the winds. On Day 84, Cornelius arrives at the dugout and realizes that Ren Hunter is missing, and in her place is—

Dix. In a Thieves’ uniform. He looks miserable, and Cornelius locks down his surprise with a crisp, professional blankness. Fate is cruel and Cornelius deserves this. Fate is kind and Cornelius has never deserved them. 

“What’s this?” Cornelius asks, and he doesn’t intend to sound as cold as he does. He realizes belatedly that Workman and Doc aren’t here to even out his demeanor, and so here he stands, looking every bit the frigid asshole that the tabloids say he is.

None of the new Thieves have an answer for him. Esme heaves a sigh. “Your fucking problem, Cornelius,” she says, and jogs away for her warm-up. 

The rest of them disperse, already following Esme’s lead, until only the two of them are left in the dugout. Cornelius sits down, starts to put on his cleats.

“Warm welcome,” Dix says. 

“We used to.”

“But not for me.”

“Not since O’Brian,” Cornelius corrects. It is easier than saying  _ since Matteo.  _

“Right.” 

They fall into silence. It’s uncomfortable, like walking between a row of cacti. “Dix, I—”

“You don’t get to call me that anymore,” Richardson Games replies, and Cornelius doesn’t recoil, because he should have known this was coming.

_ Dix,  _ he’d introduced himself years ago,  _ if I like you.  _

They’ve fought enough to break that. Cornelius has said enough to break that. Dix has— Richardson has changed enough to break that. It makes sense.

“What,” he says, because Cornelius has been quiet for a while, “are you surprised?”

“Your name is yours to do with what you wish,” Cornelius says smoothly, standing up. “I don’t mind.”

He’s lying straight through his teeth, but maybe Cornelius can return half of the hurt he’s been dealt with those last three words. Because to admit hurt is to admit defeat, and to have this taken from him is a solid blow, but the fight’s not over. 

Or it is, but Cornelius won’t let it go, because his best friend is dead, his husband hates him, his team is falling apart, and time charges on, uncaring, irreversible. 

* * *

Day 98 takes Doc. He’s not a Thief anymore but he was as good as family, the fourth to go. The air reeks of static. The season ends. 

The election takes Stu and Briggs, too. The alternate version of Stu seems happier, and just as dorky, and she seems surprised that Cornelius and Richardson aren’t getting along, which stings. But it’s fine. They’re fine.

They’re okay, because they have to be. 

* * *

Workman and Cornelius meet up during the off-season. “I’m seeing someone,” Workman says, and Cornelius tilts his head in question. “A therapist,” they clarify. “Helps, man. Honestly.” 

_ What comes after the Turn? _

“I’m glad it works for you,” Cornelius says, mild and noncommittal.

_ That’s what I thought. _

“Bro, you know that’s not what I’m saying,” Workman presses, and their voice holds a sympathy Cornelius refuses to acknowledge. “We’ve all been through some shit. I was talking to Esme about it, and—”

“Esme,” Cornelius echoes, “tolerates me, at best.” 

Workman sighs. “That’s not true, first of all, and even if it was, that wouldn’t change the fact that we both think talking about everything that’s happened would be good for you.” 

The idea is so far fetched it’s laughable. “I thank you for your input,” Cornelius says, “and I disagree.” 

“Cornelius,” Workman says, shifting in their place, “this isn’t some cute thing. Our people died and we watched, that— that almost ate me alive, you know? It was awful, and I was fuckin’ alone in Canada, and I had to do something about it so it wouldn’t tear me apart from the inside. And that’s what I’m saying, man, the way Esme was talking about it—”

“Don’t.”

“You don’t sound like you’re taking care of yourself, man, honest,” Workman continues, “and like, look, we’ve been friends for how many years? That’s my job to let you know how you can help yoursel—”

“If I wanted to be constantly informed of my personal failings,” Cornelius cuts in, and his voice is ice cold and sharper than broken glass, “I would simply have a conversation with my husband.”

“It’s okay to be hurting,” Workman says, like it’s the simplest thing, but to admit hurt is to admit defeat, and Cornelius  _ cannot  _ lose to them. 

_ What comes after the Turn? _

Cornelius looks at his old friend, and Matteo is dying, over and over, and he is drowning, unable to breathe, because Matteo is dying  _ over and over _ and Cornelius needs to get out of this conversation and find somewhere he can be alone, somewhere he isn’t on the defensive, somewhere he won’t be pressed about grief that he should be over by now because it’s been more than a year and every time the headlines declare an incineration it’s Matteo, Matteo,  _ Matteo _ . 

“I know,” he says calmly, over the roar of screaming in his ears, over the nauseating burning of flesh he can still see. “And I’m not.”

_ That’s what I thought. _

* * *

Season 5 is uneventful.

* * *

Seeing Di— seeing Richardson around Choux doesn’t get any easier. Cornelius avoids them, but not for the reason anyone thinks. Their falling out and stilted conversations afterwards have been largely ignored by a team that cannot read Cornelius and barely knew he was married. Esme largely ignores their bullshit, which means the rest of the team follows suit. 

The lot of them assume that Cornelius is avoiding his husband because they hate each other. This isn’t strictly true— at least, it isn’t true for Cornelius. It would be much easier to hate Richardson than it is to love him and be hurt by him regardless, than it is to love him and hurt him in return anyway. Cornelius doesn’t strictly know how Richardson feels about him, but to ask is to admit insecurity is to admit hurt is to admit defeat, and so he doesn’t ask. 

In reality, the reason why Cornelius stays away is because, aside from Matteo, Richardson knows him best out of anyone. If they cared to, they could tear down the small amounts of dignity Cornelius has left to rest upon. Almost certainly whatever Richardson would say to him would be deep-cutting and accurate and Cornelius’ reply— because he wouldn’t leave an argument without speaking his mind— could ruin any last affections between them. And then they really might hate each other, and find proper grounds to get a divorce, and the Millennials would probably celebrate, and Cornelius could be utterly, completely, and wholeheartedly alone. 

It’s what he keeps asking for, after all. The game would never give it to him kindly. 

“Are you done?” comes a voice from behind him, and Cornelius turns around to see Richardson holding a cup of coffee and looking irritated. All at once he realizes that he’s been standing at the counter of the Thieves’ communal kitchen for far too long, absently stirring creamer into his coffee and catastrophizing. 

“My apologies,” Cornelius says, and there is no hint of worry in his tone. “Please, go ahead.” 

“Sure,” Richardson replies, his expression shuttering closed, and for the first time all season Cornelius gets a good look at him.

They look exhausted. There is something worn and beaten in their eyes, but even as potent as that is, loneliness has been scrawled across it like a kindergartener first given free reign to use crayons. Once the game began, they all began to age differently, but if life had continued as normal they would both be in their early thirties now. Perhaps, soon, Richardson’s hair would begin to streak with gray, or Cornelius would have laugh lines, or they would look like anything but this: their eyes too old for their bodies, their bodies not old enough for their minds. 

“If you want me to go—”

“I don’t,” Cornelius says, swallowing, and he hates how immediately he falls back into old habits, how desperately he wishes to give Richardson anything he wants. “I don’t.” 

“Okay,” they say, and they are close enough to touch. Cornelius wants so many things he can’t have. But today, it seems, the weapons are sheathed, and they are both so tired. 

Ri— Dix leans back ever so slightly and Cornelius catches him on the shoulder and gently, tentatively, painstakingly he relaxes into the touch, wordless, unable to break the bond that has been created nor strengthen it past a single thread of gossamer. 

They are married. They are married and standing in the kitchen holding each other after a long day and this is not apology, this is not forgiveness, this is love long lost in translation, and the fragments of language found in the rubble are so fragile they dissolve under a magnifying glass. 

This moment doesn’t save them. They aren’t asking to be saved, just for a truce. Too many are in danger for them to be each other’s worst enemy. 

And so, for just a while, they set baggage aside, and rest. 

* * *

In Season 6, Workman and Antonio become teammates again. Cornelius cannot bring himself to care that yet another one of the original team has been traded away. Then he gets the news that Bookbaby’s been killed in Philadelphia, and his mouth fills with the taste of ash. They’re all on their way, it seems, to a fiery death or some other exile, and it was Cornelius who signed them up to die. 

On the worst of days, he cannot stop seeing Matteo’s last moments in his mind’s eye, knowing that they are and always have been his fault. Most of the time, though, he manages a mirthless smile and keeps up the demeanor expected from him, delivering sarcasm and haughty superiority in interviews and continuing to win. It’s a performance, a game, a lie.

Workman keeps calling, keeps asking after Beasley. Cornelius tells them to leave him alone. Workman laughs at him, tells him to “stop being so uptight, bro, this is all we’ve got, might as well have some fun with it, you know? I’ve been taking Vela to the movies sometimes, she talks about what it’s like to be a temporal anomaly and all that shit. If we can’t fight god or whatever, might as well have a little blasphemy, right? Enjoy ourselves?” 

“Mm,” Cornelius says, pointedly refraining from both agreeing or starting a fight. 

“And I— I miss them too, I do, but taking care of myself doesn’t mean I loved them any less,” Workman says, in that way they do, like everything is simple. “You knew Matteo, man, they wouldn’t have wanted the whole world to stop because of—”

“Workman,” Cornelius cuts in, velvet-coated steel, “hang up. Now.” 

“Cornelius—”

“That’s out of line. Hang up. I will not continue this conversation.”

_ What comes after the Turn? _

* * *

Jaylen is raised from the dead. Cornelius regards the entire situation with a detached sense of intellectual amusement. What else would he expect from the audience who opened the Forbidden Book the first chance they got? 

The curtain rises on Season 7 with a sense of foreboding. Soon after the Hit-By-Pitches begin, and the mysterious Instability accompanies it, the league is abuzz with confusion and fear and anticipation. The dread is accompanied by a morbid curiosity as Jaylen ducks out of interviews, refuses to answer any questions about her death or undeath, and claims again and again that she doesn’t know what Instability is or what it does.

“I do what I’m told,” she snarls, and the burns on her arms ripple strangely as she shoves the microphone away from her face and turns away into the Garages’ dugout. “That’s it.”

Jaylen radiates danger. It emanates from her like lightning from a stormcloud, and for the first time since Season 3, Cornelius attends a game he isn’t pitching. He wishes he were inspecting competition, rather than gaging a threat. Jaylen looks distracted, her eyes focused not on the batter but something behind them, and when she looks most ungrounded from the field where she stands is when her pitches go wild, bringing with them a warbling path of energy that clings to the player long after their at-bat has ended. 

Like everyone else, Cornelius has his theories. Like most of them, he is incorrect. Like many, he loses someone on Ruby Tuesday: Antonio Wallace, whose Feedback he had barely acknowledged, is gone. 

The Thieves were watching the report together, although their lineup was much different than the last time they’d done this. Lachlan is sitting in the rocking chair, and Dix is on the couch, Esme with her chin in her hand next to them. Gunther and Beasley are next to each other; Franklin is on a beanbag, and Cornelius stands off to one side, unable to fully commit to participating in this team activity. It reminds him of Season 1, and at the same time, it is anything but. 

_ Moody Cookbook.  _

_ McLaughlin Scorpler.  _ Dix looks away, and Cornelius remembers how recently Wesley Dudley of the Millennials was killed. Two former teammates, gone in the same week. 

_ Elijah Bates. _

_ Kiki Familia.  _

_ Antonio Wallace. _

Cornelius shuts his eyes.  _ What comes after the Turn?  _ echoes the constant refrain in his mind, and he is watching Matteo burn again, and he is watching Matteo burn again, and—

“‘nielius?” It’s Vela, tiny and wide eyed, tugging at his shirtsleeve. 

“Not now,” Cornelius says, forcing some softness into his voice, and leaving the room. 

He needs to be alone. The roar of the crowd rings in his ears as Matteo begins to burn, the peace in their expression oddly genuine, reaching out to Vela one last time.  _ What comes after the Turn? _

The team has each other. They can grieve together; they can speak about it in a way Cornelius doesn’t, in a way Cornelius never has, in a way Cornelius  _ can’t _ . And they’ll be okay. They’ll all be just fine.

_ That’s what I thought.  _

* * *

On Day 75, Workman gets hit, and it’s only a matter of time. For the first time in a long time, Cornelius calls. Workman doesn’t sound like a man about to die, even though they know that the umpires will be drawn to them like moths to flame once the solar eclipse descends. 

“Can you get to Jersey?” Workman asks, expecting a negative.

Cornelius hesitates. “Princeton?” 

“Yeah. The park where y’all— where Matteo and you picked me up, ages ago.” Workman laughs, and it’s sad. “I know you’re not about all that nostalgia, but you know. You’ve got to give me a last meal, or something like it.” 

As much as Cornelius would like to protest that Workman will be fine, remind them that others have made it through the Instability, he does not have that much hope. “I should be able to make it in a few hours,” he says. “Although Princeton is a horrible place for a last meal.” 

“Can’t even let me die in peace, you prick,” Workman says. “Fuckin’ typical.” 

“I have specifically detailed in my will that I refuse to die within a week of visiting Princeton University,” Cornelius says. “I recommend you do the same.” 

“Shit, man,” Workman says, whistling. “I’m saving your life. I’m doing  _ you  _ a favor.” 

“Don’t push it.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’ll see you there.” 

* * *

Cornelius isn’t pitching on Day 81, so he attends Workman’s final game. He owes it to them. He knows what he will see, and he finds it. 

Unlike Matteo, Workman doesn’t combust in a single instant. Play stops, but Workman waves it forward, ignoring the flames beginning to creep up their pant leg. Logan Rodriguez, the poor Yellowstone pitcher, looks terrified, faced with an Unstable, on-fire opponent. Workman slams their bat on the ground and snarls, “Throw the  _ fucking  _ ball already!”

Rodriguez does. Workman slams it out of the park and takes off. 

This final home run is an event that Cornelius hopes will never occur again, and one he wouldn’t have missed for the world. The ball soars across the field, high into the stands, and Workman flips their bat one last time as they begin to sprint. 

One of their legs is already half-consumed, and they’re forced into a limp as they round first. The air licks the flame into a bonfire that creeps up their hips as they come up on second base, head held high, hot tears leaking out of their eyes and evaporating off their face. 

Workman Gloom is more fire than person at third base, their shoulders pumping, one last smile splitting open their face from ear to ear, and soon after they start down the home stretch only ash remains. The stands are screaming. Cornelius is so cold. 

_ What comes after the Turn? _

Of course Workman defied all the odds in their final moments. That’s just who they were. Spectacular, persistent, boundary-breaking. Of course they would refuse to die before they’d had their way with the game. Of course it would be on their terms. Of course it would be a home run.

_ Throw the fucking ball already! _

Cornelius’ cheeks are wet. He, at some point, was crying, and is no longer, but he can feel the ice cold of the tears on his cheeks, chilled by the Canada air. It has been a long time since he’s managed tears for an incineration, and he will not do it again. 

He really is alone, now. He’s spent so much time practicing.

_ That’s what I thought.  _

* * *

Somewhere along the way, Cornelius has lost half a star in pitching. He goes into Season 8 rated a 3 star player, the same as Matteo at their peak. Beasley and O’Brian are rapidly catching up to him in terms of skill, which is shameful, but at least no one’s died. And no one’s died, which means he can turn his frustrations inwards, focusing on the fact that he simply isn’t good enough anymore. The rest of the league is getting better at a ridiculous rate, and Cornelius has stayed stagnant in his skill the same way he has in regards to everything else. 

Esme opens the door to his office. She doesn’t bang it open the way she usually does, in a flurry of movement and commotion, but instead cracks it open halfway and knocks. “Can we talk?” 

That’s never good. “Of course,” Cornelius says. “Take a seat.” 

The air is heavy. Esme doesn’t look happy when she says, “This team needs a captain. We haven’t had one, but you’ve been the de facto leader, and frankly? Lately you haven’t been leading us at all.” 

“Mm,” Cornelius says. This is both better and worse news than he’d imagined. “And what do you plan to do about it?”

Esme spreads her hands. “Be captain.” 

“Are you sure?”

“What,” she says, face darkening as she folds her arms, “you think I can’t?”

“I think,” Cornelius corrects, and for the first time when broaching this topic his voice is steady, “that there comes a lot of responsibility when leading a team that has been torn apart by incinerations and feedbacks. I think that you should expect these things to continue. I think that every time you lose someone under your direction, you will feel responsible. I think that you know some but not all of this experience. I think you should consider it. Come back to me at the end of the season if you’re sure.” 

They look at each other for a moment. It has been a long time since they knew each other,  _ really  _ knew each other, but their foundations cannot be burned away. Esme was his first friend; he was hers. She learned to walk in his parents’ kitchen. He recovered from his first breakup on her mother’s couch. Things have changed, and Cornelius isn’t sentimental, but he learned to spell Esme’s name only days after he learned to spell his own, and that means something.

“How did we get here?” she asks, and Cornelius merely shrugs. 

“That’s a loaded question with no simple answer.” 

“I remember when it was fun,” Esme says.

“I remember when I couldn’t pitch for shit,” Cornelius says, and Esme laughs. It’s real but sorrowful. 

“You? I just figured you picked it up in a day like everyone else.” 

Cornelius’ smile fades. “Matteo taught me.”

“Yeah.” Esme glances out the window, towards the stadium. “I used to watch you practice. It was— I don’t know, it was nice.”

“It was.”

* * *

The Charleston Shoe Thieves enter Season 9 with Esme Ramsey as their captain and a reinvigorated sense of excitement for the game. Most of them already took her at her word anyway; this just makes it official. 

Cornelius, for his part, does not mind as much as their audience expects him to. Tabloids report it as a “coup,” that the “former ace has finally been upstaged!” and the fact that both Esme and Cornelius repeatedly shake off interviews does not do anything to aid public perception of the affair. 

But it’s fine. The scandalous details are paperwork and calling home to say hello to Destiny— together, for the first time in over a decade— and petty larceny and not talking about any of their dead friends. That’s not anything anyone wants to know, aside from maybe the bit where they were friends in childhood, but that’s a fact that neither of them will share. 

Cornelius clicks through a few of the emails Workman sent him about where to find a therapist, follows the links and for the first time thinks about it. Workman had looked happy when they’d mentioned they’d started therapy. Workman, for whatever reason, believed that Cornelius could achieve the same thing. 

He almost deletes them. He doesn’t. He doesn’t follow up with any of the recommended trauma specialists, but he doesn’t delete the emails either. 

* * *

The Thieves, for the first time in a long time, are spectacular. Cornelius cannot help but be pleased. 

* * *

It takes him a week to realize that the love of his life is on the chopping block.  _ Dead Weight,  _ the blessing reads.  _ Shed it. Incinerate the worst player on the team.  _

Cornelius checks the official star rankings and confirms what he already knows: their worst player, according to however the rankings are calculated, is his husband, and if their fickle audience votes the wrong way, Dix is gone. The idea of broaching the topic with him directly is impossible. Cornelius can’t speak about incineration without Matteo’s last words ringing in his ears, or Gloom’s final run swimming before him. As much as he feels it necessary to say something, he does not know how he can keep his topic and his composure at the same time.

So he leaves a voicemail: “If you need anything, the key is under the carpet. It will be for the rest of the season.” 

Dix returns it in the middle of the night: “Thanks but I’m good. If you need anything I’ll be in the batting cage, so don’t need anything.”

It was better than what he expected, so that’s fine. Cornelius forwards an email to Esme about who is at risk and keeps to himself with his worry.

* * *

Cornelius is the one slamming the door this time. “That was unacceptable.”

“Oh,  _ fuck  _ you, I’m not a child,” Esme snaps, shaking out her hand. “I can punch whoever the hell I want, that’s my choice.” 

“No,” Cornelius says, “you’re not a child. You’re the captain of this team, and you need to put up a better example.” 

“She killed Gloom,” Esme snarls.  _ “She  _ killed Antonio. She’s the reason why we lost Beasley! You can’t look at her and tell me you’re not fucking furious.” 

“My feelings on Jaylen have nothing to do with whether or not I’m going to punch her.” 

“Right! Because your fucking feelings don’t mean anything to you, Cornelius, I forgot how  _ calm  _ and  _ rational  _ you are, Jesus fuck.” 

“Whatever your goal with this statement, it has nothing to do with the matter at hand,” Cornelius says, and Esme fumes, silently. “But you’re a Thief. We’re Thieves. We lie, we cheat, and we steal, but we do not speak badly about one of our own. Nor do we punch them in the locker room where everyone can see.” 

“Jaylen is  _ not  _ one of us—” Her own words come back to her with a vengeance, and she sighs, running a hand through her braids. “Fuck. Fucking fine. I’m not happy about this.” 

“You don’t have to be happy about this.” 

“Get your smug face out of here, jackass.” She says it without any real malice, which is how Cornelius knows that they’re back to being fine. 

“If you say so.” 

* * *

If the Baltimore Crabs ascend, it will be Cornelius’ fault. The team has worked tirelessly to make up a two game deficit, but by the top of the third inning, the Crabs have earned four runs, and the Thieves are flagging. 

In the bottom of the third, though, Blood Hamburger scores a second run, and that familiar competitive adrenaline courses through Cornelius’ veins. What’s done is done. He can hold this game down and pray the team can work in tandem to take it back.

At the top of the ninth, Cornelius has done what he promised himself and refused to allow another run. The only problem is that Adalberto Tosser has done the exact same thing. The final score, it seems, will be 4-2, and Cornelius’ legacy will be that of failure as the Crabs take to the sky. 

He is sitting in the dugout, not yet feeling sorry for himself, when Stu saves them. Her stance is determined; her eyes are fierce, and when Tosser pitches, she is beyond ready. The speakers blare with the alert of Shame as Vela and Haley sprint around the bases with her, the three of them gasping with shock and laughter as they collapse onto home plate.

They have to technically get two more outs to end the game, but no one cares as the team swarms their champions, lifting Stu onto their shoulders and screaming her name. Stu Trololol, ascension killer. She is beaming. She is radiant.

The officials break up their pre-emptive celebration so that the game can finish, but that moment of joy will not return after Esme hits an impatient flyout to Nagomi McDaniel and the game is called. 

Instead, the skies shift, and a deafening noise rings through the air. The god who hates them laughs. 

“TIME TO TEACH YOU SOME DISCIPLINE,” it roars, and the Thieves are suddenly so, so small. 

* * *

Dix doesn’t die in the election. So that’s something. They’re all cursed now, too, which feels like a callous way to note that the Thieves came out of Day X shaking and terrified and leaning on each other, their friends pouring down onto the field to make sure they were still breathing. 

Cornelius didn’t pitch the game— he’d tried to walk back out onto the field, but Dix had shoved him back onto the bench and shouted something that was immediately lost in the winds. “Don’t be an idiot,” probably. It was enough to make him lose his balance, so all he could do was watch as the Shelled One’s Pods demolished the remnants of the team he’d created so long ago.

The Thieves limp through Season 10, but they’re still resilient, and as the games continue, they hit their stride. Esme does her best as captain, pushing through the Flinch, but her frustration is palpable. Stu keeps her head up, but she’s dropped the stupid fake Cockney accent Cornelius has hated since its inception. Now he wishes that her happiness was still floating around on the breeze to annoy him and light up the room. Dix takes the curse hard, takes it personal. 

Cornelius can’t do anything, for any of them. Workman’s emails go again untouched, filed away as not to clog up his inbox.

Voicemail: “Is the key still under the carpet?”

Return: “It is now.” 

They could just send each other texts, but there’s something important about hearing the other’s voice that brings them back to voicemails. Not once does Cornelius pick up the phone when Dix calls, and vice versa. But the voicemails are always answered.

Dix never comes by, but the knowledge is enough, and even as the pair of them keep their distance, there is less bite in it. The chasm between them has been filled with the rubble of their respective collapses, and though one supposes it’s still a chasm, it could be crossed as long as the crosser watches their step. They are older. They have been through hell. 

The walk across the gulf that separates them is possible, but it’s still a long walk. Maybe it’s one they’ll take later. Maybe it isn’t. 

* * *

Jaylen dies for a second time. Tillman Henderson returns in her place. It’s strange and opinions on whether or not this was a good thing stand incredibly divided.

Oddly enough, necromancy is the least of everyone’s problems.

* * *

The Thieves make it to the finals again, but they stand in front of the Crabs knowing the odds are poor; they’re cursed with Flinch and stuck with the fifth base against a team at their peak. The Crabs are already buzzing with anticipation at the opportunity to wipe out the Pods themselves and finish the fight the Thieves lost. This team is the only thing standing between them and glory, ascension, and eternal fame as the Baltimore Crabs go down in history as—

As the team that was eliminated from contention in one swing. It knocks the breath from the entire stadium, the Thieves sitting in the dugout and sharing concerned, confused glances. The Crabs were supposed to win this; they were the champions of the league, the best of all the teams. 

There is no music. There is no dramatic moment of defeat. There is nothing but quiet. The Shelled One will reign forever, and the players will never manage to atone.

Then the field begins to shake, and an eerie blue light splits the ground as a man begins to rise. No— not a man. A spirit, congealing into a being of flame and fury who roars fire into the air and spurs the crowd back into life. This is Landry Violence, perhaps the most famous player to ever die.

The crowd’s focus on Landry is so overwhelming that Cornelius almost misses Workman rising next. Esme notices at the same time he does, though, and then they’re both on their feet, Esme screaming their name like her life depends on it, and gods, maybe it does. 

Emmett Internet. Yazmin Mason. Jaylen, again. Boyfriend Monreal. Morrow Doyle.

Doc.

_ Doc.  _

Doc and Workman see each other and run headfirst into a hug, and Doc is still barely five feet tall, and sure, he has to jump into Workman’s arms, but they’re here, they’re here, they’re here, and—

Cornelius looks around as Randall Marijuana joins the lineup, near frantic, barely daring to whisper, “Matteo?” 

It’s lost in the fray, but he still asks, and he receives no answer, and the perfection of this moment fades as the Hall Stars face up against the Pods. 

“I’m sorry,” says a voice at his shoulder. Dix. By the look on their face, they’d tried and failed to find someone among the risen team, too. 

Cornelius doesn’t bother with falsities, just swallows the lump in his throat and nods. “Me too.” 

What, exactly, they are both apologizing for is unclear.

“I AM INFINITE,” crows the god above them, as the Pods take thousands of points of damage. “YOU ARE CHEATING.” 

Doc hits a home run, and it’s beautiful. 

* * *

The Discipline Era ends. The Charleston Shoe Thieves are far from what they once were. Workman Gloom and Morrow Doyle are, after far too long, released. 

Cornelius brings them to Matteo’s grave. It is a loss they all remember, one that he has just begun to acknowledge. He still hasn’t gone back to Workman’s emails. 

“Damn,” Doc sighs, scuffing at the ground. “We really had no idea.”

Workman laughs. Cornelius has forgotten how much he missed that sound.  _ “No  _ fuckin’ idea,” they agree. “Man, dying sucked. So bad.” 

“Amen,” says Doc, and they grin at each other, tinged with fear and hope and love. Cornelius clears his throat. “What do you want, old man? You can’t come after me for that either, you’ve been alive the longest. Old-ass.” Workman snorts. 

“What comes after the Turn?” Cornelius asks softly, his gaze focused on the headstone.  _ Matteo Prestige, beloved co-conspirator.  _

The Pledge comes first in every magic trick. It is the hero’s call to action, the promise of adventure to come. It is the oath that the magician swears to commit to pulling the rabbit out of the hat, or the coin from behind the ear, or to cut the woman in half without hurting her in the least. Or the idea of creating a heist crew and covering it up with a career in blaseball. A good pledge is necessary to keep the audience coming back for more. 

The Turn raises the stakes. The coin disappears, or the team begins to fall apart, scattered to the winds or reduced to ash, one at a time. The Turn is where everything is set into motion, or everything goes wrong, and the spectators wait with bated breath for what will come out the other side. The Turn takes the trust created by the Pledge and tests it.

“The Prestige,” Doc murmurs, and their words are halfway reverent. 

The Prestige, Matteo always reminded them, was the hardest part. The Prestige is the flourish, the wink, the payoff. The Prestige is two dead teammates materializing in blue light and laying waste to the god that sanctioned their murder. The Prestige smiles and says that everything will be alright.

Cornelius does not know if the Prestige of this magic trick is complete, and this is their only reward after a decade of pain, or if the league is still stuck in the midst of the Turn, or if the Prestige will be done in two acts. He does know that he is not finished. He is not ruined. Workman and Doc have come home.

“Yeah.” Workman smiles, and ends the show. “That’s what I thought.”

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you so much for reading. If you have anything to say, comments and kudos are deeply appreciated!


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